


some mistakes get made (that's alright, that's okay)

by orphan_account



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Canon-Typical Violence, Ensemble Cast, Family, Friendship, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, Love, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Origin Story, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Racism, Threats, but it got "cut for time" from the show ;gsejrlgsjirogflkj, literally JUST learned that alex's mom's name is mindy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27890263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: For Alex, love has only ever been a four letter word.
Relationships: Alex Manes & Arturo Ortecho
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mmm. these sure are Some Times huh.

Alex’s first memory of love is this:

Being six—or seven—and painting butcher paper with all ten fingers, Joni Mitchell on the radio. His mother was across the kitchen table and he was folded up with his knees on the chair, smearing canary yellow with firetruck red, a sunset explosion.

His adult brain contextualizes the memory with certain details: it was washable paint and his father was out of town. He can’t remember his brothers being there—surely by that time painting would be too babyish for any of them.

But not mom. And not him.

But six-or-seven Alex wasn’t thinking any of this. He only saw the color, all windshield smudged rainbows and the slickness of the paint, freely flowing from fingertip to paper canvas. His world was wrapped up in the warm hums of his mother’s voice, singing along under her breath and laughing quietly as Alex tried to pretend he knew the words as well.

“What’s a paved paradise?” he asked, plosives sliding together like the paint.

“Well,” said mom, and he thought maybe he already knew but he loved asking his mom everything—always wanted to view the world from her deep eyes, her mystical perspective that seems to hold every answer to every question the world over. “Paradise is a place where everything is beautiful and safe. And what she’s saying is that someone wiped it all away.”

He frowned, a pucker between his brows—something he inherits from his mom. “How come?”

“Cause people don’t appreciate how good they got it, till it’s gone.” She grinned and her teeth were all suns, bright as light, her face as beautiful as her voice, her voice all nectar. And in his dreams Alex said, _I appreciate you_ , and she stayed, her hard-working knuckles flecked in blue paint, drawing a flower in the corner of his picture. In his dreams she said, _I know, baby,_ and hugged him hard and never let go.

But he doesn’t remember what he said next. He doesn’t remember anything else, from that day, and so many others when he had her, not knowing how precious that time was. He doesn’t remember what she was wearing, the day she left, or that she frowned with the same worry lines tracing her brow. All details lost to the slippery sands of memory.

He remembers painting colors in wide waves, no picture in mind, just the swirl of hues and the kitchen radio sweeping up into his mom’s hair, glowing around her bright smile a halo of happiness. He remembers feeling beautiful and safe, for that moment.

-

The Crashdown is unusually empty for a Saturday night. Rain slices the windows as a warm summer storm thickens the air, curling the ends of Alex’s hair. He disappears into a booth, shoulders at his ears, and drips rain on the frame of a huge plastic menu. Liz isn’t working tonight, he knows she’s at Maria’s for a sleepover, and he hardly sees Rosa taking weekend shifts if it can be helped. He prays Mrs. Ortecho is off—it’s always awkward being around her. He understands more than anyone how combustible relationships can be with parents and is staunchly on the side of his friends… but she’s always sweet as pie to him, and it makes an awful, lonely part of him ache, betrayal and longing all washing up along his shores. Which would leave only one option—

“Alex! Good to see you!” Arturo’s non-slip shoes squeak in the water Alex dripped across his floor.

Alex hides a wince, shrinking under the menu. “Hey, Mr. Ortecho.”

Arturo makes a noise in his throat as if to wave off the formality but his brown eyes are warm and fond, proud if Alex wanted to fantasize. Maybe he does, a little, so sue him.

“Late night partying?” he asks, with a sly grin and a tease to his voice. He knows the kind of kid Alex is, the kinds of high school freshmen parties he goes to (see: none.)

“Yeah,” says Alex, deadpan. “A real rager.”

“Ready to order?”

“No, um, I’ll just…” He fumbles with the menu, setting it down to dig around his pockets for change. Quarters and dimes bounce off the table and he scrapes a miserable dollar from his duct tape wallet. “Can I get a horchata? Just a small.”

Arturo’s silence highlights thunder cracking outside, the cry of rain and wind. Alex looks up after stacking his quarters neatly, wanting to smack himself. He knows what Arturo sees—a fourteen year old loser with waterlogged clothes and smudged liner, a bruising eye and scabbing mouth. It was stupid—so _stupid_ to leave the house, not in the least because he’s gonna get it so much worse when he gets back. But he just _had to and—_

“You got it, buddy.” Arturo smiles pleasantly, collects Alex’s menu. “Can you be patient, though? I’m starting to close up and it’s just me tonight.”

“Oh, sure, yeah. Take your time.” Alex is happy to stay as long as he can.

Arturo nods and squeaks his way towards the kitchen. There are only a couple of customers at the bar, hugging coffee and moving crumbs back and forth on their plates as they make idle chit-chat. Arturo cashes them out and bids them a sincere goodnight, locking up behind them. Alex folds his arms on the table and buries his head in them, thoughts washing away with the rain and the quiet song of tills being counted, fryers gargling oil, industrial fridges humming, the low drone of neon...

“Order up.”

Alex startles out of a twilight-sleep, snapping awake instantly, then relaxes as he orients himself. He hides a huge yawn with the back of his hand and scrubs his eyes. Plates appear in front of him but the smell hits first—juicy burgers on shiny buns, dripping in cheese and bacon, hot salted fries and towers of steaming onion rings. Ramekins of Flying Sauce and Space Jam, and two large glasses of icy horchata, condensation crying down the sides.

“I—Mr. Ortecho—”

Arturo slides into the opposite booth and unfurls his napkin, dragging one of the burgers in front of him. “Join me for dinner? This is my first break all day, and I’d rather not eat alone.”

“But—”

“Ah! Vamos a comer,” he says, and takes a voracious bite, something mischievous in his bright eyes.

Alex resists for about a second but he’s a teenage boy with a void for a stomach. He starts in on the Saturn’s Rings, dragging them through ketchup. They eat in companionable silence at first, food too good to worry about being awkward. Arturo asks the dreaded adult, _so how’s school,_ but he’s clearly kept up to date on school drama from his daughters so he comments with insight on Alex complaining about a teacher or classmate. They talk about music class and Alex goes on a long winded tangent about reading guitar tabs and how the lead singer of Danger! At the Picture Show writes his songs and before he knows it the plates are empty, their bellies full, and laughter rings through the Crashdown louder than thunder, Alex rapt by Arturo’s stories.

“You did _not_ get kicked out of a Ramones concert.”

“I was young once,” insists Arturo, as Alex cracks up. “I even might’ve been _cool_.”

“You’re still pretty cool now.”

“Oh? Would you remind my girls of that some time?”

Alex sips the cinnamon dregs of his horchata. “Yeah. I guess it’s different since you’re their dad. But they, they love you, you know?”

Softly, Arturo smiles. “I know.” His gaze turns probing and Alex looks anywhere else, hunching forward around his cup. Arturo leans back in the booth, wipes his hands on the napkin and folds it. “I’ll tell you something even my girls don’t know. When I was a young man, only a few years older than you are, I had a big fight with my own father. It doesn’t matter what about, now, and tell you the truth I can only remember part of it anyway. But it ended in an ultimatum, do as he said or leave. So I left.”

“All on your own?” Alex is held captive by Arturo’s voice, eyes wide as he listens intently.

“Mmm. I found my way after a rocky start. But I was so angry at him, for the longest time. I would call my mama and refuse to let her hand the phone to him. Years went by, and the next time I saw him was the last, right before I came to America. He was a proud man, a strong man. And I was like him, when I was young, I didn’t want to be wrong so I didn’t apologize. He shook my hand, I hugged my mother, and he died from pneumonia only a few months after I moved here.”

A ghost of grief crosses Arturo’s face. Alex swallows hard, says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“It was hard at the time, to be away and feel so powerless. So full of regret. I wish that day I had forgiven him and embraced him. I loved my father deeply, as I know he loved me. We just couldn’t say it and that shame I carry with me to this day. But in a way, my father gave me a gift. A freedom that led me to the family and life I have today. I only wish I could thank him, share with him his beautiful granddaughters and this,” he gestures, encompassing everything around them, “the Crashdown is only possible because I learned by his side, in his restaurant as a child. Our parents pass onto us the best and worst of them, but it is in our hands alone to decide what we carry. Only you can control what your life is and who you are. Alex—”

“Mr. Ortecho—” Alex’s rabbity heart kicks around his throat.

“Please, you are such a good kid. I know things aren’t right at home—”

“Mr. Ortecho nothing—” Alex scoots towards the edge of the booth, hands starting to shake. He feels like those frogs that get boiled alive, his body so sated from the company and food it’s making him slow.

“I only want to help. Whatever you need. If you need a place to sleep or a, a job to get out of the house, I need a new busboy—or if you ever just want someone to talk to, a safe place—”

Fists crash against the door, booming over the storm and shocking them both. Alex has a clear sight of the entrance and his tiny bloom of hope is snuffed like a flame.

“Nowhere is safe, Mr. Ortecho,” he says, voice low, eyes cast down as Arturo glances over his shoulder to see Alex’s father glowering in through the glass.

Jesse Manes steps into the Crashdown like it’s a horse stable, eyeing the mess of their table with distaste. Arturo hovers beside him, keys in hand, says, “Jesse, Alex was just—”

“Leaving.” With a cold cut of his eyes, Alex snaps to his feet, falls in line by his father’s side. “Sorry he bothered you tonight.”

“Not a bother at all,” says Arturo, responding to Jesse’s frosty tone with a carefully neutral one, his usual joviality absent. “In fact, he was great company, and I was hoping to see if he’d be interested in a weekend job around here.”

“Oh?” Jesse observes Arturo, then Alex, and Alex holds his breath. “Is that what you want?”

All the sound leaves the room. Alex meets his father’s eyes. “I—”

“Because,” Jesse interrupts smoothly, “I don’t know how comfortable I feel having Alex exposed to your family, let alone your business.”

Any trace of geniality drops from Arturo completely. “Excuse you, Jesse, but _my_ family is not what should worry you.”

“No? And what worries you, Mr. Ortecho?” His father punctuates the syllables harshly, mis-ter or-tek-oh. “I’ll tell you what worries me. The safety of my children.” He walks casually to the checkout counter, picks up a little green bobblehead alien and studies it critically.

Alex has a keen sense for danger and his alarms are blaring. He pushes against the inner door, willing his father to turn around. “Dad, come on, let’s just—”

“You see it all over the news. Abductions, killings, aliens.” Jesse stares back at them. “Illegals running amuck, endangering our young people. As a father, surely you share my concern that there are wolves in sheep's clothing in quiet little Roswell, criminals hiding in plain sight.”

Arturo is deathly still, paling slightly. Alex can’t tell what exactly has him so scared but his own fear is spiraling out of control, eyes stinging.

“Dad, seriously. I was just walking around and he let me in to keep out of the rain. I was gonna… I was gonna dine and dash him, cause I didn’t have dinner after I ran away. I’m sorry, okay? I’m really sorry, I just wanna go home.”

"How disappointing." Jesse sets the alien down, flicks its head. “Well, alright son. It’s clear you’re upset, I’ll take you home. Arturo, from one father to another, I hope you respect my decision to keep my son out of your restaurant.” He adjusts his coat and reaches for a handshake by the door.

Arturo’s eyes burn. Their stare is intense and unwavering, locked like ram’s horns against each other. At the last second, Jesse pulls his hand away, turns and leaves.

Alex hesitates until his dad is out of earshot, mumbles, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Ortecho,” and runs out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be updating this fic with some rough chapters I'd had planned out. I'm going to orphan all my Malex/RNM fic. I want to say a huge thanks to all who read and enjoyed and encouraged. I'm putting these chapters up because the bones of the story I still like, and wanted to share, but won't be continuing. Stay safe, take care of yourself and each other. <3

“Come on, son,” says Jim Valenti, one thick hand acting as a visor over his eyes. “Put some elbow grease on that.”

Alex sighs in a great gust, blowing drops of sweat off his forehead. Neck craned and starting to sore, he redoubles his efforts and tugs free a nasty little weed down to its spidery roots. He sits back against his feet and holds it up like a trophy.

Jim laughs approvingly, cheeks ruddy, sun glinting in his dark eyes. He’s kneeled a few feet from Alex, matching cowhide gloves covered in dirt. They’ve been weeding most of the morning, clearing the cabin’s overgrowth and supplementing the space with Home Depot’s finest. Mrs. Valenti wanted a garden (“She’s just tired of this place, thinks I might as well make it look pretty if we ain’t using it for much,” Jim had said early that morning, screwing his mouth up in a grin as they stared at his abysmally sad front yard) so when the weeds were vanquished and crammed in the dumpster, they hauled in forty-pound bags of soil and more flowers than Alex has seen in his life. Jim directed him clearly and though the sun is heavy on their backs, the air is light between them. Occasionally Jim will stand and stretch, hands pressed against his spine. He’ll fetch a fresh beer and squint at their progress, then start in with another, _have I ever told you about the time,_ about some arrest or stakeout he’s been on, and Alex will start chuckling at his bold, ridiculous stories. Aching at the ribs, stiff-necked and sweltering, Alex’s smile won’t leave his face, even as he scrapes dirt and Jim talks, sipping from the steps of the porch.

Alex pulls a bulb from its plastic planter and fits the roots in gently, scooping fresh soil and packing it in with his hands. He’d glanced at the tags as they filled the carts; Russian sage, althea, lilacs. Lots of purple (“Michelle’s favorite,” Jim said, in a tone of voice Alex had never heard before) is all Alex sees.

“Careful.” Jim sets his bottle down, thuds down the steps towards Alex. He drops to a low crouch and guides Alex’s hands. “Let those roots spread, we want them drinking up as much water as possible.” He teases apart the root structure, separating it carefully from its compact shape right out of the planter, and piles on the new soil generously.

“How do you know all this?”

“My daddy was a landscaper. Used to say, God’s in all gardens, if you dig deep enough, but my daddy was always pretending to come up with quotes. You know, he had me convinced ‘til I was twelve that he was the person that started _spill the beans_ cause he spilled some damn beans. You got it?”

Alex nods, and to prove it, picks the next bulb ( _forsythia_ , a loud splash of yellow curving upwards). Jim _hmms_ and moves down the line, falling back into companionable silence as they work.

It is late afternoon when the yard’s transformation is complete, a welcoming and wild orchestra of petals and sweet pollen. They view their finished project from the porch, feet kicked out from the bench, inhaling turkey and cheese sandwiches, Jim waxing on about his father’s bean story (“Son, he said to me, they were the Queen’s beans! And there they went all over her royal carpet, so what could I do? And I’m six, remember, so I’m just pissing myself laughing at my daddy, that marvelous liar.”) Alex catches a burp in his hand after he alternates gulping ice water from his glass and swallowing bready bites with barely two chews.

Jim slaps his thigh and laughs. He’s a big man, tall and wide-shouldered, with thick dark hair like his son, but a heavier face, wearier brow, cheekier smile. Kyle is an obvious synthesis of both his parents, but Alex always secretly thought Kyle took after his mom the most. There’s just a gentleness about him, something reserved and almost shy held close to his chest. Jim is brash and his confidence is disarming, he makes friends with everyone, even the people riding in the back of his cruiser. Kyle has all his father’s charms but with a touch of uncertainty when he uses them. Maybe it’s just age—Alex sure as fuck doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he’s almost sixteen now. The thought strikes a bit of primal terror in him: when will he finally figure it all out? But it passes in the next moment as Jim holds a single finger up, parts his lips and lets loose a deep and thunderous belch.

Alex chokes on wet lettuce, laughing and snorting, shaking his head. “Sheriff, I think that was a crime against nature.”

“Then take me away,” says Jim, grinning affably. “Lord knows I’m guilty.”

“Ugh, I can _smell_ it.” Alex wrinkles his nose, exaggerating.

“Smell it? You’ve been playing in manure all day!”

“It's just dirt.”

“Is it?” Jim takes a pull from his beer, bushy brows twitching in a show of amazement. “Then what did I do with all that cow shit I bought, hmm…”

Alex sets the crust of his sandwich on the arm of the bench, twisting his dumb grin around the water glass. This is the best and the worst part of being around Kyle’s dad: how easy it is. Jim always hugs Alex, ruffles his hair, remembers his birthday. He’ll catch Alex’s eye over Kyle’s head when Kyle is being dramatic about Liz or football or something, smirk and wink like they are occupying a totally separate space together, somewhere special even Kyle can’t see. Jim may rib Alex over his clothes or eyeliner, (“Now don’t take offense, but how do you even put that stuff on your eye? I thought vampires couldn’t see their reflections?”) but it’s always with a sunny smile and, _ah, I’m just bustin’ your chops kid_. Even when Kyle’s mom eyed him warily or pressed her mouth into a line when Jim invited Alex to stay for dinner or gave him his first real laptop for his thirteenth birthday—a pretty outrageous gift Alex can agree—Jim remains staunchly unfazed, like Alex is… like he really is important, or something, beyond just Kyle’s-friend-Alex.

Riding that high of being _wanted_ makes Alex feel untouchable. Which is why coming back to reality hurts so much worse; leaving the crystallized adrenaline rush of belonging somewhere only to remember that he doesn’t, not really, and all the back slaps and sly smiles and kind words won’t protect him when he gets home. The fall is long and hard, and still, every time Alex can’t help but get swept up in the attention all over again.

Jim says, “Thanks for the help today, son.” Crumbs wiped from his shirt, new beer cracked, foam sliding down its neck.

“Yeah.” Alex taps his fingernails against the glass and stares into the yard. Bees dive across the purple patches, swathes of yellow and pink, hovering at one flower before moving on to the next. “I was happy to.”

“Hmm.” Jim clears his throat and Alex straightens in the seat, growing hot under his cheeks. “I’ll give ya a ride back home after we clean up.”

“Sure.” Even thinking about it makes his stomach sour. Everything flips instantly, the whole good day melting away like ice in his glass.

“Look,” Jim starts. Alex turns to study him at the strange hesitance in his voice. Jim is facing forward, his genial features drawn together in concentration. “I know Kyle’s been… well, lately and I wanted to say—”

“You don’t have to—”

“Just that, maybe it’s… high school can be hard, even for the best of friends, and I—”

Alex chews at his cheek, eyes sliding shut. That morning, an otherwise pleasant Sunday, Alex had borrowed Flint’s bike to head up to the Valenti’s. Kyle had invited him over to finish their history assignments and then mess around on his Xbox for the rest of the day. They haven’t had a real day like that together in… Alex isn’t even sure, months? Longer? At school Kyle is in a different social stratosphere and Alex has come to terms with the fact he isn’t allowed visiting rights, whatever. Kyle can be an asshole poser in class, but they’re still friends, for the most part. At least, he thought, but when he showed up Kyle wouldn’t even let him in the door, staring at his shoes with a frown, mumbling about extra practices with the guys from the team—and that pissed Alex off something good, getting cancelled on _again_ (“Seriously Kyle, what the fuck?” but Kyle just shook his head, jaw clenched like _he_ was angry, “Come on man, don’t be such a f—” and that’s the moment Jim appeared behind his son, a jolly specter to kill the tension and cajole Alex into some free labor up at the cabin. And even though he knew how much Kyle and his dad had been fighting, even though he knew Jim had been drinking again and Michelle was close to kicking him out, even though he knew it would piss Kyle off even more—in that moment Kyle felt more like his adversary than his friend, so Alex pretended not to notice the hot, jealous flash on Kyle’s face, said only, “Too bad you can’t come,” and felt an ugly twist of victory.)

“—I want you to know, it’s nothing you did, he’s just—Kyle’s been through a lot this year. Even if he can’t always talk about it, I know it’s been weighing on him.”

“It’s okay, I mean…” Alex stops himself from saying something truly idiotic like, _even though your son and I probably aren’t friends anymore, doesn’t mean we can’t be!_ and swallows the heavy, guilty stone that keeps rising at the thought of Kyle at all. He has to remind himself it isn’t his fault Kyle acts like such an utter douchenozzle, but his body doesn’t get the memo, chest tight and prickly with heat when he thinks of Kyle, and the unread text on his phone. “I get it.”

Jim strokes a thumb and forefinger through his thick mustache, sets his beer on the deck by his foot. “I just want you to know, if you ever need anything, I’m here for you, son.”

It’s hard not to flinch at the word now, like prodding a fresh bruise. All the joy of their hard work, bonded by sweat and banter, has evaporated. Alex almost wants to laugh. _I’m getting dumped by my best friend_ and _his dad_. He nods, and the silence hardens around them until it’s impenetrable. They clear their tools and trash any remaining debris, leaving the cabin lovelier than Alex has ever seen it. Jim drives them back into town with the oldie’s station playing low, and idles a few houses down from Alex’s, because he knows the drill; Alex left on the bike and he better show up the same way. Before he unbuckles and goes to retrieve it from the bed of Jim’s truck, Jim puts his hand out to stop him.

Alex turns, feeling drained beyond the physical exhaustion, and Jim’s face is still unusually clouded. “Alex, I know you’re a good kid. And damn, you may just be the smartest Manes man yet.”

“Thanks,” Alex says after a beat, not quite sure where this is going.

“I know your dad can be a bit of bear, but… well.” He clears his throat roughly.

Alex’s breath ceases for a record scratching second. The cavern of things unsaid builds and builds and then collapses in on itself. “Bit of a bear,” he repeats, unsure he even heard right.

“Alex—” But Alex can’t be there anymore, he climbs out of the cab and grabs the bike as the driver’s door slams and Jim comes around to meet him. “Wait, hey, I’m sorry. I know—Christ, I know it’s more than that. I’m sorry.”

“Mr. Valenti—”

Jim continues as if Alex hasn’t spoken. “Lord knows if I could get you out of that damn house, I would, but I…” He averts his eyes for a second, tips of his ears red like Kyle’s whenever he’s stressed. “You know your father.”

Alex’s ears are ringing. He doesn’t want to hear this, can barely start to comprehend it. All at once his life is being validated and recognized, while any last fleeting shred of hope—that, maybe, one day, if he tells the _right_ person they will be able to help him—dematerializes in front of him. Jim knows, he really _knows_. Alex knew he had an idea ( _bit of a bear_ ) sure, but he never—there was no way Jim of all people could really know what was happening and not—but here it is. And even he is as powerless as Alex is to stop it. The fragility of Jim in that moment, his surreal humanness, upends Alex’s entire world view.

Jim has always represented the ideal Adult Manhood that Alex is two steps to the left of; gruff but kind, masculine and confident, commanding authority in any room he walks into. All the shades of a Manes man without the violent stain beneath. And even though he knows it’s not true, Jim’s not perfect by a long shot, Alex has still never had the invincible image of him challenged before now. But here it is: the actual sheriff of their town is a pawn on his father’s board, not an Arthurian knight waiting to slay the beast and save the innocent. The last construct of possible safety Alex created for himself is shattered, the old refrain truer than he knew. Nowhere is safe, no one is going to help him.

“But I don’t want any dumb high schooler fights to stop you from ever calling me, ever, if you need me.” Alex blinks at Jim’s words, refocusing on his face. Jim’s eyes are serious, weighted and compelling Alex not to look away. “Day or night, rain or shine. No matter what, I’m a phone call away, alright?”

For a horrible, humiliating moment, tears surge in Alex’s eyes, throat going tight. But he controls himself quickly, looks down and scrubs his nose, taking deep, slow breaths. Stupid pollen and itchy weeds. Alex would love to cling to this lifeline—a jagged part of him wants to ask Jim to take Alex back home with him right now, just to test Jim’s resolve, see how far those easy smiles and hair ruffles will go. But Jim tipped his hand—clearly Jesse has something on him, big enough to stop Jim from interfering in any official capacity within the law. And if that’s true, Alex can’t risk endangering the Valentis.

Alex squares up his chin with a nod. “Thanks, I’ll remember that,” he says, and sets off to walk down the street, spokes on the wheels ticking along his side.

A huge hand settles on his shoulder, and before he can say anything else Jim encases him in a hug. The bike clatters on the pavement. Alex stands frozen, arms at his sides, as Jim holds him solidly. He disappears into Jim’s barrel chest, turning his face to breathe in the sweat-hops-patchouli scent of him, leaning into the unyielding, steady nature of his frame.

When Jim pulls away, his hands still grip Alex’s shoulders. “You did real good work today, hard work, with no complaint. Be proud of yourself. And I don’t get up there as often as I’d like, but you know where the key is, so if you miss all that weed pullin’,” Jim grins, a good replica of his normal self, but with just enough strain around the eyes Alex can see the effort, “or just miss the cabin, feel free to let yourself in.”

“It’s alright, Mr. Valenti. Not like it’s really mine to miss anyways.”


	3. Chapter 3

Thirteen and still in that awkward stage pre-high school but feeling grown, Alex and Kyle shove elbows and knees into their treehouse. It’s midnight on a Saturday and Kyle is burning his mouth on $5 pizza.

“Shut up, your dad’s cool,” Alex says, peeling off a pepperoni and eating it whole. “He gave me your old DS.”

“Yeah. That’s kinda weird though, right?”

“I mean, you got a new one.”

“No, I know. But shouldn’t your dad do that stuff?”

Alex’s lungs burn. “My dad’s an asshole.”

“Yeah,” agrees Kyle, easily. It pisses Alex off for a split second—he wants to shake Kyle by the shoulders and scream at him because he doesn’t _get it_ , but what good would that do? Not even the Sheriff can help Alex outside of dumping his son’s hand-me-downs on him.

Alex drops his slice back in the box and falls down, collapsing on his back with a huff, arms folding under his head. The bad mood strikes him like a snake, overtaking his whole body, vicious and physical. He breathes through his nose loudly, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to part the black clouds and get back to the easy, feel-good atmosphere from moments ago. His legs dangle out of the opening, hanging at the edge by the hinge of his knee, kicking the sky. Kyle copies him, settling in warmly by his side. Above is wood and thin slits full of stars. Alex watches galaxies swirl in the gaps and finds faces in the gnarled planks. He allows the bad mood to swirl into that vastness, its grip lost from his heart.

He says, “Where do you wanna go? If you could go anywhere?”

“Australia.” Kyle eats his pizza sideways, mouth shiny with grease. “I wanna work with the kangaroos, like a wildlife vet or something.”

“Just the kangaroos?”

“No, duh. Crocodiles and emus and quolls and stuff, all of them.”

“Quolls?”

“Carnivorous marsupials. They’re pretty cute.”

Alex laughs. “I’m picturing you in the safari hat and khaki. Wrestling an alligator.”

“Crocodile.”

“Does it matter?”

“Alligators need freshwater, so, uh, _yeah_.”

“When you’re wrestling it, it wouldn’t matter. They both have teeth, right?”

“If I’m wrestling it, I would already know what it was.” Kyle pauses, then turns his head, grinning brightly. “Dude, you think I could though?”

“Wrestle an alligator? Yes.” Kyle whoops. “Not a crocodile though.”

“Ah, c’mon. Guess I’m moving to Florida.”

“I’ll come with.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, we could go to the Space Center.”

“Nerd.” Kyle dangles a slice over his mouth, ugly bite leaving a red thumbprint of sauce smeared at the edge of his lips. Alex slides his gaze off Kyle’s face, back to the stars. “We could get an apartment together,” he says mid-chew. “On the beach, looking out at the ocean. You could play guitar out on the balcony and I could like, study all the marine life.”

Alex hums with a little laugh. “Dude, I’ve been in your room before, I am not putting up with your mess.” And Kyle laughs in outrage, shoving at Alex’s side, painting more fantasies about mansions and indoor swimming pools and infinite pizza, backyard aquariums with pet alligators, dolphins, sea turtles and more. An island for two, sand and sun and creatures of fairytale, totally new to them but benevolent and domestic. A safe place to breathe and dream, succeed in whatever they desire day by day. Alex can nearly taste the salty spray, the algae-rich texture of their future. Goggles and snorkels and big, bubbling grins beneath an ocean they’ve never touched.

“You know,” says Kyle, after a natural lull. He speaks quiet and slow, the way secrets always unfold, shy as flowers. “You’re probably my best friend in the whole world.”

Alex bites his bottom lip. Kyle’s neck, his shirt collar, his big ears. Kyle’s shooting up like a weed with his growth spurt, leaving Alex in the dust, and Alex can feel his presence pressing against him. Taking up all the air with his dark eyes framed in darker lashes and minty, deodorant smell. He doesn’t know or doesn’t want to know what the bubbles in his chest mean when Kyle smiles at him like this, so he ignores it all in favor of saying, “Ditto,” into the quiet, shadowed space.


	4. Chapter 4

Alex orders ahead for them.

“Burger? Dude, you know I’m tryna go weekday vegan.”

“Dude,” Alex mocks lightly, eating a fry. “I saw you demolish _five_ sausage patties at breakfast last week.”

Flint loosens his ugly teal tie and unbuttons his cuffs, rolling up the crisp sleeves. “That was Sunday brunch!”

“Don’t call it brunch.”

“When a meal is between,” Flint brackets the words with his hands, “ _breakfast_ and _lunch_ , Voulez-vous. It’s brunch.”

“ _Voila_.”

“Exactly.” Flint takes an enormous bite of his burger and smiles while chewing.

“God,” Alex rolls his eyes, slumping against the table. A moment, lumbering and slow as a ship docking. “So, was, uh,” he licks his lips, looks at the silverware, “was Clay there?”

“Yeah.” Flint pauses a breath and swats around an onion ring in some ketchup. “Yeah, and Greg. Uncle Rob even showed.”

“Wait, really?” Alex almost laughs, but controls himself, frowning at his own impulse. “Isn’t he like 90?”

“96.”

“Damn. Damn. Can you—” Alex’s inhale slices through him, numbness moving from his fingertips to his spine. “Can you imagine? Making it that far and… and having to see your younger brother die, like. And he’s all, he’s all alone, we never fucking visit him—”

“Alex.” Flint’s hand is a warm, heavy stone weighing in his own. “Look at me.” He waits, then, “Uncle Rob was a racist dick to us all our lives. _His_ children never fucking visit him, don’t go there, Jesus. And… and stop feeling sorry for anything. It’s okay that you weren’t there. You didn’t need to be.”

“I’m not—”

“I know you.” He shakes Alex’s hand, the movement scrambling through Alex’s bones. “I _know_ you, brother. I’m not—I know I’m not—”

“Flint, c’mon, don’t start—”

“No,” he says, fast and sharp, metal under his tongue, meaning it. “No. Let me get this out because I… I have to, okay?” Flint withdraws his hand, and now he’s the one gazing down, elbows standing on the edge of the table, head and hands hanging down in a drowsy facsimile of prayer. “I sucked as a brother. Our childhoods sucked, so be it. Dad… dad fucked us up. I can finally say it—it wasn’t a family. It was a pressure cooker of obedience. Greg and me… Clay, we didn’t ever get it like you did.”

The world is a cold fire around Alex, gray and soundless; he’s hanging onto Flint’s voice to keep any sense. Of course he’s always known he got the brunt of his father’s rages, and he’s always known why. But—and not that he wanted this but—for the majority of his life, the extent to which anyone would it acknowledge it was close to zero—and maybe sometimes it was hard, rationalizing why your brothers think you deserve it—hot guilty teeth tearing into him as he remembers the abuse they all suffered, how he didn’t have the right to think he got anything worse, he was just—weaker—and—and fuck. He had no idea how much he needed to hear someone else say it.

“We didn’t. And I didn’t do enough to protect you then, because…” Flint is crying, Alex realizes with a start. His head is still down but his voice is wet and thick, there’s a tremble in the bridge of his fingers. “Because I was scared, Alex, I was just… scared. We all grew up terrified, but before you got on the scene, we just got really good at hacking away at ourselves to try and fit whatever bullshit ideal of a man dad tried to force us into. We did that, to ourselves, because we were scared. I’m gonna be honest: it fucking worked. But then you were born and, Christ, you didn’t have a goddamn clue how not to be yourself. And he hurt you for it. But you just… wouldn’t quit being you. No matter what he did—fuck.” Flint lets out a suffocated laugh, drags his hands down his face. “You drove him fucking crazy, Alex, because he couldn’t break you.” Chin to chest, a reserved chuckle rumbles from Flint. He sits up, coughs in his fist and leans toward Alex, eyes still shining. “That’s why I fucking failed you as a brother, because I didn’t understand how you did it, how you beat him at his own game when I couldn’t. It pissed me off and it scared the shit out of me. And I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry for all of it.”

Alex stares into his brother’s eyes. The world rushes back in and he can’t take it, glancing at his own half-eaten burger and fries, he breathes in through the snot and says, “I can’t believe you actually got me to cry on the day of dad’s funeral.”

Flint blinks for a moment, then throws his head back and begins howling with laughter.


End file.
